


When the Prince Left the Palace

by VivaRocksteady



Category: King of the Hill
Genre: Character Death, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, King of the Hill style philosophy, Panic Attacks, Worry, being an adult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27204362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivaRocksteady/pseuds/VivaRocksteady
Summary: "The point is, I no longer have a mitre saw, and I can’t find a good place to get one.”“I guess they don’t make them like they used to,” said Bobby.“They don’t,” agreed Dad. “It’s gone forever. I don’t know what to do, Bobby.” He sighed.--Wherein Bobby Hill is 35, and 2020 is a nightmare year.
Relationships: Hank Hill & Bobby Hill
Comments: 11
Kudos: 21





	When the Prince Left the Palace

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is about covid anxiety, but there didn't appear to be any specific tags for covid and I'm not sure what the policy is on that. Anyway, this is NOT an escapist fic.
> 
> I never in my life thought I'd write a King of the Hill fic, and I have a million other things I want to be writing. But I have been struggling with some very specific covid-anxieties that have sort of hijacked my brain, and I think I needed to express them. So I decided to give them to one of my contemporaries, Bobby Hill-- wild to think he'd be 35ish now if he aged normally. 
> 
> This is also inspired by those posts that went around a few years back about how Hank Hill was the best of the Cartoon Dads. He was really the only good one, before Bob Belcher came along. If only we all had a dad as sensible as Hank Hill in a time like this.

"I went to the Meg-Lo-Mart on Monday,” said Dad, during one of their weekly phone calls. 

He dropped the A out of _Mega-Lo-Mart_ sometimes, which Bobby hadn't realized until drama school in New York tuned his ear. He'd all but scrubbed his own natural accent by the time he returned to Texas, and it came back in softer, but he could never quite un-hear the not-quite twang with which his parents spoke. 

"I went to the Meg-Lo-Mart on Monday,” Dad was saying, "to get a new mitre saw.”

“What happened to your old mitre saw?” asked Bobby. 

“That old mitre saw had done me almost thirty years of dependable service. But the motor was on its last legs for a while now, and it finally gave up the ghost.”

“That sucks,” said Bobby, stifling a laugh. Joey was trying to get his attention by doing a really dumb Tik Tok dance in the living room, and it was working. But Bobby only got about six minutes a week to talk to his dad, so he tried to give it his full attention. 

“Well, I needed a new mitre saw, so I went to the Meg-Lo-Mart and I was thinking. You know, it was a real pain in the ass when that place opened up, and ran all those great mom-and-pop businesses out of town. But now it seems like those businesses would’ve all gone belly up anyway. The Meg-Lo-Mart is still hanging in there, so everyone gets to keep their job, and the fewer people on the welfare, the better.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s something,” said Bobby.

“Now, are you classified as an essential worker?” Dad asked. They’d had this conversation last week, and the week before, and Bobby didn’t anticipate this conversation ever going away. 

“Yes, Dad,” he said. “The restaurant is still open.”

“And you’re getting enough business?”

Bobby decided on half of the truth. “We’re doing a ton of takeout,” he said. “If we play our cards right, we might be able to stay afloat.” 

“If you play your cards right,” agreed Dad, “everything will shake out in the end. You're working hard and providing a quality product.”

Bobby bit back a scowl-- he absolutely hated it when food was referred to as a _product_ , but Dad didn't know that and there was no point telling him.

“Your loyal customers will remember that.” Dad paused for a beat. “I’m happy you still get to work."

"Yeah, me too."

"Bill is real proud of you, you know."

Bobby grinned at this. Dad always couched it around Mr. Dauterive— he could never say it himself, so he said Bill said it. 

But Bobby figured he had a bit more street smarts than his Dad. He once watched his Dad have a twenty-minute conversation with a lesbian couple about a propane tank for their grill, wherein the couple talked at length about their backyard and the party they were throwing, and called each other “babe,” and to this day, Dad thought they were sisters. Bobby was always better at picking up on those things, so whenever Dad thought he could hide something from him, it never worked. 

Mom commented on it whenever they saw each other. “I’m so happy you and your father get along so well,” she’d say. She had issues with her own mother, of course, which Bobby knew about in great detail. “I was worried about that, when you were growing up. You’re just so _different_ from each other. But now you’re father and son, the very best of friends!”

That was stretching it, obviously, but yeah, sure, Bobby and his dad were close. Those six-minute Sunday afternoon calls were pretty important to Bobby. 

“But I tell you what,” Dad went on. “This new mitre saw was an inferior product. I wanted to return it on account of the money-back guarantee.”

“Oh, God,” said Bobby. 

“The kid at the Meg-Lo-Mart was not equipped to handle a customer as dissatisfied as I was. Took all week to untangle that mess. They want to give me store credit, but I’m holding out for cash.” 

“This is why you’re supposed to use credit cards for big purchases, Dad,” Bobby said. “You can dispute the charge with the credit card company.”

“No, no,” Dad scoffed. “Credit cards are for emergencies only. The point is, I no longer have a mitre saw at all, and I can’t find a good place to get one.”

“I guess they don’t make them like they used to,” said Bobby. 

“They don’t,” agreed Dad. “It’s gone forever. I don’t know what to do, Bobby.” He sighed. 

\--

When Prince Siddhartha left the palace, he saw for the first time an elderly person, and learned that old age is inevitable for all living beings. 

\--

Bobby Hill had two best friends growing up. They didn’t see each other that often now, mostly just the occasional Christmas or New Year when Connie came back to see her parents. It was a little bit of a surprise to everyone that her folks stayed in Arlen long after she was gone, even as her dad kept switching jobs. Bobby supposed everyone had to put down roots eventually, even if they weren’t pleased with the soil. 

Anyway, he was glad, because it was probably the only guaranteed way to make Connie come back to Texas at all. When he left New York, they were still very young, and he had the ignorant assumption that he’d always be able to just hop on a plane or a bus and head over whenever he wanted. But that became less feasible with every passing year, and at some point he also just got too tired. 

Joseph, despite everyone’s hopes, did not become a pro football player. His heart was never really in it. He ended up roughnecking, and made way more money than either Connie or Bobby could ever dream of making, with considerably less student debt to start. He spent several years in the Bakken Oil Formation before it went bust, and ended up settling down in Montana with one of his children’s mothers. 

For her part, Connie did reach her parents’ grandest expectations, and wound up living in New York with a fancy degree and a lot of debt and not many jobs available for an overqualified prodigy like herself. But she made it work, and had gone into something called “arts administration” that became a career. A career, Bobby came to realize, was nothing to sneeze at. 

It was a little ironic, after everything, that Bobby was the one who ended up back in Texas. 

His dad had been pretty steadfast about not spending a penny for education that took place anywhere outside of Texas, so while he absolutely hated that Bobby wanted a theatre degree, he pitched in for it as long as Bobby stayed nearby. Mom was just happy that Bobby was going to college at all— “My son, the _college graduate_ ,” she still said to this day, like that meant anything to anyone in Bobby’s generation. 

Every summer, though, Bobby was in New York with Connie, sleeping on her floor or couch or whatever cramped piece of apartment she could spare. He shelled out for summer drama classes, which were probably, in hindsight, an objective waste of money, but he had a great time while he was there. 

However, in the end, New York was just sort of _meh_. Connie loved it, but Bobby just felt like it wasn’t really home. After college, he tried Los Angeles for a while, with some classmates, but it felt even less like home, and he was realizing fast how much he had to _work_ to actually keep things afloat. 

That was the biggest kick in the pants: realizing how much of life is work, and how hard you have to work to keep yourself going. 

He ended up stumbling into social-type work in LA, working at a men’s shelter. It was a sort of informal thing that a lot of his aspiring-actor and comedy buddies ended up doing, because they were outgoing and sensitive and could adapt to sticky situations fast. Bobby was pretty good at it. He also started working in kitchens, which was the actual job he told his parents about, since they wouldn’t understand the first one. 

In any case, he only lasted a few years in LA. He went back to Texas, and to his father’s dismay, landed in Austin— like, obviously. He had Arlen friends there, and, at long last, settled down. 

He got married to a pretty, smart Asian girl named Penny (Okay, yes, a lot to unpack there, but the heart wants what the heart wants.) 

He had some kids— two, in fact, which Dad was really over the moon about. Penny and him didn’t explain too much that they hadn’t actually _tried_ for either, so much as they had stopped _trying not to_ , because they didn’t want to rub it in, but Jesus Christ two kids was more than enough and there was no way in hell they were having a third. 

He started a restaurant with a guy he knew in college— at first Bobby tended bar, but ended up taking some culinary classes and got the certifications he needed to run the kitchen, too. 

It was also a venue, and they hosted a lot of arty stuff, open mic nights and poetry slams and all that crap that Dad wouldn’t be interested in. Mom loved it— she _really_ loved Austin in general, and she would visit frequently. She monopolized the open mic time a little too much, though.

They had a rooftop garden, and Bobby also had a work placement partnership with this thing for at-risk teenagers, which was his favourite part of the job. Teaching them how to cook and garden and run a kitchen and stuff. But Dad mostly just knew that they were a restaurant, and after a few years they were on track to becoming profitable. 

"Well, alright," Dad said on the phone, his voice as proud as it ever got-- talking about his dogs, or his football team, and only rarely about Bobby. "My son, the business owner." Dad had only ever made assistant manager at Strickland, never even got to run his own branch, but he'd worn it like a badge of honour his entire career. 

In his twenties, Bobby had secretly wondered if Dad ever felt like he'd been cheated, or like he hadn't achieved enough. But in his thirties, Bobby knew just how incredibly fortunate Dad was to have one job at one place for most of his life, how incredibly fortunate anybody is to have a job they enjoy at all, and how super incredibly fortunate _he_ was in his position. Maybe that was how Dad had come by his sense of pride and joy in such a menial job for so many years. 

Bobby would never say it to Dad's face, but everything he'd learned about gratitude and joy and abundance, all the things he'd meditated on in those new age yoga classes and drum circles and DIY sanghas in LA and Austin-- all those states of grace, he learned to cultivate them from watching his dad. 

_Head to toe, you're good to go_ , he'd remind himself when washing dishes at the restaurant, one of the tasks he still liked to do himself-- and especially now that they'd had to, regrettably, let half the kitchen staff go. He'd meditated on washing dishes before, and had tried other mantras, but he always came back to his first mantra, taught to him by his father while wiping tanks at Strickland Propane, which was objectively the worst job he ever had. _Head to toe, you're good to go,_ breathe in, breathe out. _Toe to head, everyone's dead._ Breathe. Breathe. 

\--

Hank Hill had three best friends growing up. 

Mr. Boomhauer moved to Canada to be with his lady friend when Bobby was in college. Bobby still remembered clearly the way Dad had spat out “Canada” when Bobby was over for dinner, just in time to see Mr Boomhauer off before he left for good. 

Mr. Gribble was— well, Mr. Gribble. An oblivious blowhard that Dad always had to take care of, though Dad said he was mellowing out a little bit. He was distraught when Joseph settled down so far away, but also weirdly pleased at Joseph’s two children with two different women. “Gets it from his old man,” he’d still proudly say. 

(They both still didn’t know about John Redcorn, or at least, they were pretending they didn’t. Bobby and Connie had figured it out in middle school, and decided not to approach Joseph about it unless he approached them first. Nothing was ever said about it again, except for a very meaningful look that passed between Dad and Bobby at dinner when Bobby was a little older.) 

Mr. Dauterive, as well, was the same as always. Still working, even at his age, still lonely and fat and getting fatter. Still sweet and open and just really kind, which Bobby was coming to realize wasn’t an easy trait to find in people, or even an easy trait to cultivate. Some people meditate on loving-kindness for years and years and still end up being total jackasses. 

Every time Bobby visited home, they would make a big batch of Mr. Dauterive’s barbecue sauce together. Bobby floated the idea of selling it in the restaurant, once, but Mr. Dauterive refused. “I made a promise, Bobby,” he said. “And I can’t go back on my word.” 

Growing up, Bobby definitely thought Mr. Boomhauer was the coolest of his dad’s friends. There were times when he sort of dreaded it when Mr. Dauterive would come for dinner. It was always so awkward and sad. 

When he got older, he developed a genuine soft spot for Mr. Dauterive. The old army barber’s face would always light up when he saw Bobby, in a way that Dad’s didn’t, even. He wanted to hear every detail of Bobby’s life, and unlike talking to Dad, there was never any twinge of judgment or disappointment. 

He loved Bobby. 

\--

When Prince Siddhartha left the palace, he saw for the first time a person sick with disease, and learned that illness is inevitable for all living beings. 

\--

“How’s Uncle Junichiro?”

He’d get about six minutes on the phone with Dad every Sunday, but Mom would talk for hours if you let her. So when Bobby actually had the time she wanted to chat with him, he’d get all the actual information about the neighbourhood, and the extended family, and even Dad, from her. 

“Wouldn’t you know it, your father and Junichiro have spoken more in the past month than they have in years? And to think he resisted so hard when we got the high-speed internet.” 

Junichiro was at least ten years older than Dad, if Bobby’s guess was right. Bobby didn’t remember much of the Japan trip clearly, but ten years older than Dad was pretty old, regardless. 

“So he’s okay?”

“Oh, he’s just fine,” said Mom. “You know, the Japanese are very clean, conscientious, and organized people. They wear a mask every winter, all winter, because their gods demand it.” 

Mom sometimes said some truly heinous things, but Bobby was over it. There were a few years in his teens when he’d get really upset, but that didn’t do anything to change her. _To love someone is to let them be_ , the monks would say. 

“If you want to worry about one of your uncles, worry about GH,” Mom went on. “Deedee let him go to spring break in Corpus Christi. I do not know what that woman was thinking. Of course, she probably was not thinking anything at all.” Mom chortled. “Oh, Peggy Hill!” 

Bobby managed a chuckle. 

“Oh honey, I’ve got to go. It’s time for your father’s call with Boomhauer. You get those two on the phone, they never shut up. Yak, yak, yak!” 

—

Despite Hank Hill's best efforts, Bobby Hill somehow grew up without any clinical anxiety disorder. 

The moments in his youth when he'd felt the most panic were usually centered around some immediate, person-based thing. Letting someone down. Letting Dad down, mostly. 

When he got old enough to stop caring about what his dad thought, and later, old enough to care about what his dad thought a healthy amount, those moments of panic went away almost entirely. 

In hindsight, compared to some of his peers-- particularly his coastal drama kid friends-- he was pretty well-adjusted. He was less proactive than his dad about having the insurance up to date, paying the bills on time, and whatnot, but he stayed on top of it. He didn't worry about the future because he simply didn’t feel the need.

Despite Hank Hill's best efforts-- or maybe because of them-- Bobby had mostly just always felt a sense that everything would be okay in the end. 

When he first heard about the virus on some white academic podcast he listened to in the mornings while prepping in the kitchen, he didn't feel any dread. When the virus inevitably came to America, he didn't feel any dread. _The wheel follows the oxen_ , the monks would say. _What will be will be._

When New York entered their form of quarantine, he started to feel it a little. This nebulous sort of dread that it would get to Connie. He didn't _think_ it actually would. Connie was young-- Bobby was still young, right? And they were the same age. Connie was fitter than Bobby, and smarter than Bobby. If it got her, she'd probably be fine, and she probably wasn't going to get it anyway, so it's not even worth being worried about it. What would worry accomplish? Worry wouldn’t stop it. 

_The wind cannot move the mountain_ , the monks would say. _What will be will be._

But every day he'd get more and more worried. He texted her more often than ever, more often than she seemed to appreciate, and tried to tell himself that he was giving _her_ a chance to share her anxiety, instead of just assuaging his own. He certainly texted her more than his wife liked, though she really tried to act like she understood. (His friendship with Connie may have disrupted a relationship or two in the past, despite how progressive Bobby and his partners all tried to tell themselves they were.) 

The year dragged on fast and slow at the same time, and he felt himself pushing back the dread about the one thing that was the most inevitable. The worry in the back of his head got bigger, even as New York appeared to “calm down,” and Connie assured him that her life had adjusted and she was doing okay. 

He started worrying about his kids-- not just his own, since he was always a tiny bit worried about them, but the at-risk kids they did outreach stuff with. 

Eventually the virus got into Texas. Austin went into their half-assed version of a lockdown. They stopped doing the outreach at all, and he worried about those kids even more. The dining room closed, they stopped hosting events, and he worried about his business. They had to lay off some of their meagre staff, and he had to worry about them. 

And on top of that, Bobby knew, because he wasn't stupid, that eventually the virus would find the small towns. 

He worried about Penny, about bringing the virus home to her, about the racist shit that sometimes got screamed at her when he wasn’t there to kick someone’s ass. He worried about her losing her mind being cooped up with her work and the kids at the same time. 

And in the back of his head, sometimes, but rarely, he worried about himself. He’d always been chubby, and that hadn’t changed as an adult. He’d had a few years in his twenties where it got a little out of control, but after he went back on Ritalin, he got on track. He was closer to “healthy” now, probably as close as he was ever going to be. Was that enough? Would it still fuck him in the end? Best not to think about. He could try to be as healthy as possible-- which he was already doing-- but that’s basically all he could do. 

What will be will be. There is no point in worrying. The wind cannot move the mountain. 

Finally one day, while out getting groceries (they'd decided he'd do it, since he was the most exposed at work anyway, though now he had to hope he wasn't just taking it from work into the grocery store) maybe his guard was down enough that it got through to him. _What if Mom and Dad get sick?_ he suddenly thought. _What if they die?_

It wasn’t actually the first time those exact thoughts had entered his head, but this time he actually felt them. He stopped dead in his tracks on his way to the car, bags hanging from his hands. His chest tightened and his breathing got shallow and he felt something hard under his rib. _Oh fuck, is this a heart attack?_ He made it to his car and had to sit on the ground beside it and put his head between his knees for a while. 

He tried to talk himself out of it, but kept talking himself into it. _They’re not THAT old. They’re in their sixties. They’re not THAT old. They’re not stupid. They’re surrounded by idiots. Dad has high blood pressure. They’re fucking old. What will I do? What will I do? What will I do?_

He couldn’t bear to think about it, but it was all he could think about.

—

"How's Mr. Dauterive?"

Mom tut-tutted. "He is doing exactly as well as you would imagine he's doing. The poor man was already so lonely. But desperation does not make a man like Bill Dauterive more attractive, not even in an apocalypse, uh-uh, no siree.” 

\--

 _Joseph Gribble,_ Bobby texted. _You better tell your dad to stop trying to get so close to my dad, or I'm going to go up there and kick his ass myself._

 _Sorry dude,_ texted Joseph. _He thinks the whole thing was a lie cooked up by AstraZeneca._

_That’s asinine,_ texted Bobby. 

_It’s hard to talk sense into him,_ texted Joseph. _He’s dumb._

 _This is different,_ texted Bobby. _This isn’t harmless alien shit._

Joseph didn’t get it, and Bobby and Connie might complain about it in secret, but there was no point in arguing. Joseph was never going to get it, and nothing would really change that. The wind cannot move the mountain. 

At least Joseph wore a mask and did the bare minimum, as long as there were laws in place. He just didn’t seem _worried_. Bobby envied him that lack of worry, which is really what this all came down to. If only Joseph was worried, maybe that would somehow affect Mr. Gribble, and maybe Bobby could worry less about Dad. If only Joseph would understand, and take it seriously. If only everything was different. 

But wind, mountains, etc. 

\--

“Perhaps this was inevitable,” Mom said on the phone. “But honey, I’m sorry. Bill is sick.” 

“What? Really?” asked Bobby. “Do they know if it’s…”

“Yes, there was an outbreak on his base. He got tested. He is in the base hospital now. I can’t help but wonder if this is somehow the result of poor planning.” 

“Oh my god,” said Bobby. “Can we go and see him?”

“No, they are not letting anyone visit. Your father is beside himself.”

Bobby was caught short. “He is?”

“Well, you know how he is about Bill. Nobody looks after him the way your father does.”

“Can I talk to Dad?”

“He’s drinking in the alley with Dale.” 

Bobby’s grip tightened on the phone, and he bit back a frustrated grunt. 

“Don’t you worry about Mr. Dauterive,” said Mom. “Your father is going to do his best to look after him.” 

_Mr. Dauterive is in his sixties. He’s diabetic. He’s alone. He drinks a lot. He’s fat, like me. He’s a human being who deserves love and he’s all alone,_ Bobby worried.

\--

When Prince Siddhartha left the palace, he saw for the first time a dead person, and learned that death is inevitable for all living beings. 

\--

"Bobby, I am so sorry," Mom said on the phone. "Mr. Dauterive has passed away.”

"What?" 

“It was earlier this week. They only told us this morning. Your father was listed as his next of kin. I suppose Bill really didn’t have anyone else.” 

“I should have come home,” said Bobby, though they had already had this discussion and, for a variety of reasons, it was decided that he wouldn’t. 

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” Mom sniffled herself. “I know this is upsetting. You were always so kind to him.” 

“Did anybody get to be with him in the end?” It wouldn’t even matter. Mr. Dauterive never had any family. The best he had were the Hills. But dying alone seemed especially sad for him. 

"Well, your father tried," said Mom. "You know how he is. I'm sure he threatened someone with an ass kicking. But rules are rules. No visitors. It was what I like to call a _philosophical conundrum_ for your father."

Bobby snorted, to cover for the sniffle. 

—

After a long talk with Penny, he decided to come home. The restaurant was going down in the crapper anyway, and it didn’t seem to make much difference if it was him or one of the other partners prepping. Penny was about to lose her mind from childcare, and they both needed a change of scenery, however small. 

And anyway, Bobby had a feeling that Dad needed him. 

They were conscientious as they could be. They isolated— not for the whole two weeks, but as much as they could with the time Bobby was taking off work— and then drove. They decided, perhaps incorrectly, that staying in the den was safer than staying in a hotel and seeing his parents every day. 

Dad shook his hand when they arrived. But when they got inside, and Penny took the kids into the den to unpack their things, Dad surprised Bobby. 

“Dad,” said Bobby. “A hug?”

“We’re in private,” said Dad. “And when this all started, the first thing I said I was looking forward to was hugging my son again.”

\--

They gave Dad a day to hang out with Joey and Maggie, so Penny could have some _very_ needed alone time. 

Mom and Bobby went to see Luanne and Lucky and their kids, from a distance. Their eldest, Gracie, had not gone to spring break like her age-mate great-uncle GH, and had in fact cancelled a summer road trip with her girlfriends. 

“So they’re being pretty cautious, huh?” Bobby asked. 

“Oh, no, they’re both morons,” said Mom. “But a good moron is one who _knows_ they’re a moron, and listens to people who know better. In that light, they have me and Lucky’s sister. That woman might be a giant blowhard, but on this issue, we agree.” 

The kids played out on the yard, and Luanne bounded over to the car, screaming for Bobby. It was really, really hard not to hug her. He just put the gifts he’d brought over for the kids on the lawn, and didn’t go near them. 

Mom even said, “Oh honey, it’s fine, they’ve been safe.” But for Bobby it wasn’t about that. He didn’t actually think that he, or Lucky or Luanne, or even his parents, were going to get sick. But the monks would say that all living beings are connected, and that we’re all waves on the same sea, caught in the same currents and following the same wind. 

He didn’t want to be the jackass that spread the virus to someone else’s poor old Mr. Dauterive. 

—

They got drive-thru milkshakes on their way back, and gossiped like the old days. They talked about Mr. Dauterive. A lot. 

“That poor, poor man,” said Mom. “Alone until the very end.”

“He had Dad,” Bobby said, half-hearted. 

“Yes, but they would not even let your father see him. And you know, for all your father took care of him, all Bill really wanted was a son.”

“Oh,” said Bobby. 

“Mm-hmm. In my opinion, the relationship between a father and son is one of the most important relationships of all. Second only to the relationship between a mother and child, and perhaps after an educator and her student.” 

“Like Dad and grandpa,” said Bobby. 

“Oh, _no_ ,” Mom almost physically recoiled. “Your father hated Cotton.” 

“What?”

“I hated that man, too,” said Mom. “Now I hope this is not un-Christian of me to say, but I was over the moon when he died.”

“Dad loved Grandpa,” Bobby said. “He was always talking about how he was a war hero.” 

Mom pursed her lips. "Mm-mm," she said, that negatory sound she sometimes made. "No. War hero or not, Cotton Hill was a miserable, repulsive old bastard. They both hated each other."

Bobby sat with that one for a while. Now that she mentioned it, Dad almost never talked about Grandpa after he died. 

“Don’t you remember how awful he was to your grandmother?” Mom asked. 

“Oh, yeah,” said Bobby. “I hated the way he treated Deedee, too. I just thought-- well, I don’t know why Dad put up with it. Why’d he keep letting Grandpa around if he hated him so much?”

“I asked myself that question all the time. Every room was immediately improved by Cotton leaving it.” Mom made her thinking noise. “But your father is very loyal. Even when he should not be. That’s why he took care of Bill all those years. And... _Dale_.”

“Mmm,” said Bobby. 

“And he always wanted Cotton to be different, I think,” she went on. “He thought that one day he might just realize how cruel he’d been, and apologize, and be the father Hank wanted him to be.”

“Ugh,” said Bobby. 

“Yes,” agreed Mom. 

“You need to accept people for who they are,” Bobby mumbled. 

“Uh-uh, no,” said Mom. “There’s always room for improvement.” 

_Well_ , Bobby thought privately, _I suppose that’s true._ But what will be will be. The wind can’t move the mountain. 

“But Cotton Hill? Yes. That man was irredeemable. And your poor father never learned.”

“Well, he’s punching Nazis in hell now,” said Bobby. 

Mom laughed for a long, long time. “Oh, he surely is. And you know, for all Cotton’s many egregious faults, he was partly responsible for Hank. And your father is one of the best men around. I wouldn’t have chosen anything less than the best, of course.”

“Of course,” Bobby agreed. 

“Not everyone is as lucky as us, Bobby,” said Mom. “Your father and I, I mean. And you and Penny. Even Luanne and Lucky. I thought that was a state-wide disaster in the making, but they are still going strong.” She shook her head. “Poor Bill. Some people just never find love, and that, in my opinion, is the most tragic thing of all. So you better appreciate Penny.”

“Oh, I do,” said Bobby. 

“You know what they said,” she went on. “A penny loved is a penny earned.” She laughed again, and wiped at her eye. “Oh, Peggy.” 

Bobby laughed with her. 

\--

One night towards the end of their visit, Mom and Dad sat Bobby down in private. 

Dad hadn’t actually shown any grief or sadness on his face since Bobby had returned. In fairness, it ended up being weeks after Mr. Dauterive’s passing, but they still hadn’t talked about it at all. Instead, Dad made a point of spending as much time as possible with Joey and Maggie. They were really great kids, and they were both more interested in sports and yard work than Bobby had ever been, so Dad was basically in heaven.

“Bill left you these documents,” Dad said. 

“Huh?”

“I looked over them,” said Mom. “And as a notary, I can confirm that they are all above board.”

“Yeah, well,” Dad said, with that very slight twinge of doubtfulness he sometimes got when Mom made one of her big claims. “This is the rights to that barbecue sauce of his. You know, the big Dauterive family secret. He wanted you to have it.”

“What?” Bobby opened the file and looked down at the papers, which did seem pretty official. He was half-expecting something scrawled on a napkin, but these were all typed, with addresses and headings and everything. 

One of the papers was, indeed, the recipe, the one he’d been cooking with Mr. Dauterive every year since he was a kid, the one nobody else knew. 

“Yup. Seems like Bill went and arranged this all a few years ago,” said Dad, adjusting his glasses, which had gotten thicker over the years. Other dad's glasses got thinner and more stylish, but not Hank Hill, who stubbornly insisted on the same frames he'd had since the early '90s. “You are now the sole owner of the Dauterive secret family recipe, and if you wanted to sell it in your restaurant, or to a sauce company, well, that’s your business.”

“But what about—” Bobby frowned, trying to remember how all that actually went down. “Wasn’t there a cousin or someone, who wouldn’t let him?”

“Gil-bert,” Dad spat, the way he sometimes spat _Thatherton_ or _Canada_ or whatever entity had earned his ire that day. “Well, he didn’t come out when Bill was in that hospital. Though I suppose I didn’t reach out to him, which was my responsibility, since the hospital was so overwhelmed with… patients and… whatnot.” 

“Gilbert was in no better shape than Bill,” said Mom. “I am fairly certain he took his own life in a fit of swamp madness a few years ago. If I am right, and I usually am, that means you’re free and clear to do whatever you want with the recipe, Bobby. If you want my advice: subscription box. I hear they are the wave of the future.” 

“Yeah, uh,” said Bobby. “Maybe.” 

"He sure did think the world of you," said Dad. “You would’ve thought you were his own son, the way he talked about you and your… comedy and… your cooking, and the work you did with the, uh... at-risk youth…” Dad adjusted his glasses again. “He was so proud of you, Bobby.”

Bobby stared down at the papers. “I know.” 

\--

That night, after the kids were asleep, they sat in the backyard with the dogs. Dad played guitar, and sang The Gambler.

“You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, and know when to run.”

“This was Mr. Dauterive’s favourite song,” Bobby explained to Penny. “Though I think it’s Dad’s favourite song, too.” 

“Every gambler knows that the secret to surviving, is knowing what to throw away and knowing what to keep,” Dad sang. “Because every hand’s a winner, and every hand’s a loser, and the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.” 

Dad finished the song, but his gaze was far away, and he looked sad in a way Bobby had never seen before. “Excuse me,” he said, and he went inside, the dogs at his heels. 

Bobby was pretty certain he’d never seen his father cry. And he knew what his father thought about crying, generally. But he couldn’t help it, and he screwed up his face against the tears. 

“Aw, babe,” Penny said, stroking his back. 

“If he can’t cry in front of me now, when can he ever do it?” Bobby asked. 

“I don’t think it’s about you,” said Penny. “I think it’s just how he is.”

“She’s right, Bobby,” said Mom. “Listen to your wife. She’s always right.” 

—

 _I guess we're probably not doing New Year's_ , Bobby sent to the group text with Connie and Joseph. They didn’t always get to do New Year’s in Texas together— in fact, it had been a few years, and in the naive days of January 2020, they had mentioned that this year they were overdo to meet up again. 

_I don’t think so,_ texted Connie. _I have a feeling things are going to get worse before they get better._

 _I’m down for whatever, dudes_ texted Joseph. _It just depends on what Sandie says._ Sandie was one of his children’s mother, the one he had settled down with, and thank the varied powers of the universe that she had sense. 

_It’ll be fine though,_ texted Connie, ever the pragmatist. _We’ll all see each other again one day._

_I love you guys,_ Bobby texted. 

_Awww, Bobby_ Connie texted back. _We love you, too._

—

Bobby was already having a bad day, as hard decisions had to be made at the restaurant. So getting the call from Mom that she and Dad were both sick was almost expected at this point. He’d dreaded it for so long, it almost felt like he’d conjured it into being, so of course it would come on an already-terrible day. 

“Did you get tested?” he asked. 

“No,” said Mom. “It’s hard enough to get a test, and there doesn’t seem to be much point.”

“But maybe it’s something else,” Bobby said stupidly, because yeah, right. 

“Well, I am not going to congregate with a bunch of _sick_ people if I am not _sick_. Even if we are all in our own cars.” 

She sounded sick, but like, a normal kind of sick. Maybe this was nothing to worry about. _Yeah, right._

“Do you need us to come back?” Bobby asked. “Do you need us to bring anything?”

“We are fine,” Mom insisted. “We have a big house and a big yard and plenty of food. Minh and Nancy said they will bring by anything we need. As if I need to give Minh an excuse to lord her cooking over me.” She scoffed, and then coughed. 

Bobby flinched. “Well, just— be careful, right? Watch your symptoms and ask for help if you need it.”

"Oh please," Mom said. “I will be fine. I fell out of a plane and was walking six weeks later.”

“This virus isn’t the same as a fall,” said Bobby. 

"This virus has not met Peggy Hill," she said, launching into a series of coughs. 

Bobby stayed quiet, biting his lip. He certainly wasn’t going to talk her out of her confidence. But his stomach kept roiling. 

“Listen,” she said. “Do you want to talk to your father?”

“I…” Bobby was surprised. It wasn’t Sunday. “Yes, please.” 

Shuffling on the line. Then: “Son.”

“Dad!” Bobby blinked back against his feelings. 

“I suppose your mother told us about our… illness.”

“Yeah,” said Bobby. “Um… you’re okay, right?”

“We’ll be fine,” said Dad, but his voice was kind of hoarse. “Bobby, I don’t want you fussing about us. You’ve got your family and your business to think about.”

“You’re my parents,” said Bobby. “Of course I’m going to _fuss_.”

“That’s not your job,” said Dad. “I’m not your boy. You’re my boy.” 

“But Mr. Dauterive... I just don't want this to be it," Bobby’s voice breaking. 

"Well, you know," said Dad. "It probably won't be. But it might be. That's a possibility, I tell you what. And I hate to say it, but if it's our time, it's our time, and that's up to the Lord, I'm afraid." 

"But--" Bobby sputtered. "This shouldn't be happening. They should've locked Arlen down more. You shouldn't have been hanging out so much with the Gribbles."

"Well..." Dad paused for a long time. "I threw in with Dale a long time ago. There wasn't much I could do about him. But we did our best, son. Don't you worry about us."

"How am I not supposed to worry?" Bobby shouted. "I know you're not _stupid_ I know— but you don't-- you--" He didn't understand why Dad didn't _get it_ , why he didn’t see what a monumental, world-changing worry this was for Bobby.

Maybe it was because he apparently hated Grandpa so much. Could he really just not understand that Bobby loved him? And was afraid of losing him? That he was always the Dad that Bobby needed, and Bobby would always need him?

"What would you have us do, now?" asked Dad. "We don't have anywhere to go, we're retired. I mostly see Dale over the fence. I only see Kahn at the dog park. Shopping is about all the socialization your mother gets."

"She plays Boggle and mah jong with Nancy and Minh!” Bobby shouted. 

"They're right next door," said Dad. "Would you rather us be locked up in a tower?"

"Yes!" Bobby cried, and then immediately realized how unfair that was. 

"Bobby," Dad scolded. 

"I'm sorry Dad," Bobby sniffled. "I just can't lose you. Not like this. Any other way. A car accident, a heart attack. Fall out of another plane. Just not like _this_."

Dad sighed. 

"Mr. Dauterive died _alone_ ," Bobby's chest went tight. He could barely think about it, and it was all he could think about. “You couldn’t even visit him.” 

Dad sighed again, deeper. When he spoke, his voice was darker and heavier. "What happened to Bill was a real shame, I tell you what. I should've kicked more asses for that. But son... we’re not alone.”

Bobby sniffled. 

"Now, the fact of the matter is that your mother and I are sick. You can't come see us until we're better. That's just the way it is. Rules are rules, and they're rules for a reason. We'll be just fine. You focus on your kids."

“I _can’t_ focus on them if I’m _worried_ —“

"Some things are out of our control," said Dad. "If the good Lord decides-- now, I don't see _why_ he would do this now, but if he did decide to take us, that's not your play to call. I'm sure he has his reasons." 

Bobby bit back a scoff. As if _God_ or _a reason_ or any kind of _plan_ had anything to do with this. The world was chaos. The waves went with the wind. Usually chaos and Hank Hill didn't go well together, and suddenly he's all trust in things he can't see?

"But whatever happens," said Dad. "Well, I have to say that I've been about the got-dang happiest man I know. I've had a good life, and I have a great son."

"Dad," Bobby pressed the heel of one palm to his eye.

"You've made me so proud, Bobby."

Bobby had to physically tense up against the pressure in his chest that threatened to spill out. Things must be really bad if Dad could just say it on the phone.

"I love you, too," he managed after a moment. "I just-- it feels like there's not enough time." 

"There's plenty of time, I'm sure," said Dad. "We'll all be together at Christmas, I tell you what. If not this Christmas, then next Christmas."

"Dad I just-- I want the kids to see you again."

"We had a great visit this summer. And they'll see us again when we're better," said Dad. "So you just enjoy some time with them, one-on-one."

"But-- what if--"

"Come on, son," said Dad, and his voice was a little strained, too, maybe the most strained Bobby had ever heard it. "Don't you remember the story about the strawberry Gatorade?"

"The what?"

Dad bit off a sigh. He always did that when talking about something difficult, which was the majority of the conversations he'd had with Bobby over the course of his life. "Don't you remember when the Meg-Lo-Mart blew up?" 

It all rushed back to Bobby like a kick in the chest. "You almost died."

"Yup," Dad said. "And I--- well, I let it get the better of me for a while there. But I didn't die. And life went on."

"I do remember the story," said Bobby. It was the first Zen parable he'd been unwittingly taught. Roger Staubach at the Superbowl, beset on all sides by Detroit Lions, destined to lose. He sniffled. "It was the sweetest strawberry Gatorade he'd ever tasted." 

"It sure was," said Dad. Then he went silent for a bit, but that was okay. Bobby knew what he meant. 

"Thanks, Dad," he said. 

"Anytime, son." Dad stopped to cough. His voice got increasingly hoarse. "You go throw a ball around with Joey and Maggie, now."

"I will." 

"Take care, son."

"Take care, Dad."

He didn't let anything slip. He was raising his own kids to know that crying was fine, but it made his Dad uncomfortable, so if there was one time in his life that he wasn't going to do it, it was going to be now. 

After the call was done, he went into the bathroom and cried and cried. He couldn't stop it. _What if, what if, what if?_ It didn't matter that the wheel follows the oxen, it didn't matter that the waves follow the wind, it didn't matter that what will be will be. He was on a cliffside, beset by tigers, and there were no strawberries here. So all he could do was face the cliff, and cry. 

He cried, and he counted the bathroom tiles, and he breathed. 

He wasn't _quite_ done when Penny called for him. "Bobby, I need help with dinner!” 

"I'm coming," he called back, wiping at his face. "I'm coming." He wasn't ready, but he was a man now, and a husband, and a father, and there wasn't any time.

And, he remembered, there were strawberry fruit pies in the kitchen. 

\--

When Bobby was twelve and grappling with what he thought were the biggest and worst decisions of his life, his dad would try to give him advice in that awkward way he did. He was really just trying to get Bobby to stop being so sensitive and act right. But it was usually still pretty good advice. Words to live by, really. 

_Everything will be alright in the end_ , Hank Hill would say. _Just hang in there._


End file.
